


no one breaks my heart like you

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 12:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11760297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: "It’s all very sudden, a nasty jolt the way drunken realizations tend to be, but Zayn finally appreciates that everything he’s ever wanted is right in front of him — New York City and Harry Styles."





	no one breaks my heart like you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsallaboutzarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/gifts).



> Title from Pool by Paramore.

**_New York. 2018._ **

“I’ve got something I need to tell you.”

They were joking about their tyrant of a boss a moment before, laughter tugging at their lips. But now the air around them feels heavy and expectant.

The past week was challenging. Zayn and his team spent the majority of the work week in Nashville, laying on the charm for a new potential partner. Harry was left to “hold down the fort” in Manhattan, and he’d sent many a sulky text to Zayn lamenting how quiet their sliver of the office was without Zayn there to mutter curses under his breath all day. Zayn remembers looking at his phone, smoothing his thumb over the glass. He responded with the typical string of emojis and a promise to meet up for drinks on Friday.

Because despite how well things were going at work — a new assistant to help him navigate his calendar, presentations at conferences, sun-filled holidays posted on social media, and money sent back home to mum and dad — at the end of the day, Zayn always looks forward to his Friday evenings the most. He and Harry, drinks in hand, flirting with the bartender at the rooftop bar round the corner from the office.

In some ways, it feels more like uni than what it really is, the both of them sitting with loosened ties and whiskey on their tongues. But they’re actually inching steadily closer to thirty, even if they do still get carded sometimes by whichever bouncer is manning the door. 

Harry’s lips are slick from whiskey and Zayn’s a little buzzed. Zayn wants to — 

But he forces himself to focus. 

_ “I’ve got something I need to tell you.” _ Right. 

“Yeah. I remember you texting that you wanted to talk. So what is it?”

Harry takes a long, deep breath. His face scrunches up like it does whenever he gets an especially curt email from Cowell. Zayn wants to prod his forehead, toss a wad of napkin at his head and tell him his face will stick like that. “Like — I don’t know how to even start.”

Zayn snorts. “Well. How about at the beginning?” 

Harry pulls a face. Zayn stifles a giggle while Harry’s gaze turns to the condensation on the side of his glass. “Mitch proposed. Two nights ago, when you were in Nashville.” Harry pauses, the muscles in his throat working double-time. “I said yes. And — and I’ve put in a transfer request with Cowell. He reckons that they’ll say yes, that they can transfer me to the LA team.”

There is a moment where Zayn’s mind goes completely and totally blank. He just sits there, trying to remember the social norms for when your best friend tells you they are going to move across the bloody country to marry their Los Angeles-based, recently divorced, handsomely bearded sugar daddy. 

Zayn clears his throat. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Harry tries to hide it by ducking his head, but Zayn still catches the way his face crumples. 

  
  


**_California. Now._ **

The chapel sits at the end of a windy, dirt packed road. It’s a quaint little thing, two stories of peeling blue paint and a square, fenced in patch of garden in the back. Grass dances in the breeze, too tall but picture-perfect green.

The church seems like something out of a film. Cute, inoffensive, quietly photogenic. The type of place that just  _ is _ , that time ignores. 

Zayn pulls at his collar as sweat collects around his neck. It’s muggy and has been for the last few days, all of his clothes harboring the smell of sweat and the forgotten tinge of Gucci Guilty. Zayn hadn’t thought the Sierra Nevada was capable of such heat, but to be fair, he’d never spent much time thinking about the Sierra Nevada. 

“Indian summer,” Mitch said solemnly as they waited for their rental car outside the Sacramento airport. Zayn had nodded absentmindedly in response, fidgeting with the vinyl bag holding his tux.

Zayn visited this tiny church several times in the lead-up to the ceremony. They had the rehearsal just last night, Zayn standing next to Harry, Mitch’s ring box an impossible weight in his pocket. 

Zayn helped Harry pick the church out, even, once upon a time. Harry had a neat folder in Google Drive, and the church was listed on a spreadsheet of potential wedding venues. Zayn remembers sending Harry an email during his lunch break: “That little chapel looks cute. Sent from iPhone.”

It still doesn’t seem like the sort of place Harry would get married. When Zayn thinks of Harry getting married, he thinks of a bed and breakfast outside of Manchester like the one Louis and El picked for their ceremony, of blustering winds ruining his hair in the wedding photos, and mulled wine. He thinks of Harry looking across a mattress and giggling, “Winter is coming — and so are our vows.” He thinks of Christmas and the whimsy of the season, not California and moist heat. 

Zayn scrubs at his face and bites back a growl. For not the first time in recent months, he can’t help but think that he’s clearly a bloody masochist.

Cars zoom across the main road, Toyota Priuses at odds with what Zayn assumed of small-town Americana, and mud-splattered trucks that feel more in line with the stereotypes. Zayn can make out birds chirping, interspersed with the crunch of tires on gravel, and the crescendoing laughter of the rest of the wedding party. Zayn fans his hand over his eyes and squints up at the fat, fluffy clouds drifting across the late September sky. 

He would kill for a smoke right now, his fingers itching for the familiar high of nicotine. He’s trying to quit, though, and he left his emergency pack in Louis’ car, back at the hotel.

The florists are finishing up. The caterers push cartloads of food into the dining hall across the path. The guests will start arriving for the ceremony soon, in rental cars and Ubers and Lyfts. They’ll murmur about the heat but smile, grateful that sweet, love-cursed Harry and Mitch are finally getting their special day.

Zayn takes a deep breath and pops a piece of Nicorette gum into his mouth before letting his gaze fall upon the chapel once more. 

Zayn knows about bravery and he knows about insanity. This moment — walking up the path to his best friend’s wedding with the full intention of disrupting it — is a little bit of both. 

  
  


**_New York. 2015._ **

Finding a new job is a humbling and soul-sucking experience, but Zayn’s got a very good feeling about this one.

It was cover letter number 55, in-person interview number six, but the first time he’s been called back for a second in-person meeting. They properly grilled him, really dug into the meat of his CV, but they asked good questions too, promising ones that show they’re envisioning him as a member of the team.

Finally,  _ finally _ Zayn might be making New York City his home.

Zayn leaves the conference room with a promise that they’ll be in touch within a few days. 

He’s rounding the corner to ping the elevator when someone calls his name. Zayn turns and he thinks, “ _ Oh _ .”

Green eyes. Long, unruly brown hair. Pale skin. A smart suit. Gold, almost tacky Saint Laurent Chelsea boots. And a smile that actually pulls Zayn up a little short.

If this is the sort of lad the company has just lying around, Zayn’s fucked, because he can’t remember the last time he’s felt instantly smitten.

“Hey,” the man says, reaching out a hand for Zayn to shake. Zayn obliges, forgetting how to breathe at the brush of skin on skin. “My name's Styles, Harry Styles. I’m not on the Hiring Committee, not properly anyway, but I’ll be on your team if you come on. So I just wanted to say hello, introduce myself.”

“You’re a Brit, too?” Zayn asks. “Manchester?”

“Close,” the man called Harry replies. “Cheshire. Tiny little town called Holmes Chapel. We’ve got quite a few Brits in the office. There was talk of opening a London branch a few years ago, actually, but it was pretty obvious that none of us felt compelled to move back across the pond, at least not yet.”

Zayn ducks his head and smiles, shuffling to the side of the corridor as a group of women in sky high stilettos dart past, all with containers of salad in hand. "Well, it’s not properly my home yet. Me and the missus are still staying with friends, flying back and forth between here and Newcastle while we both look for work.”

Harry’s cheery face goes carefully and politely blank. “Oh. Are you married?”

“Ah, no,” Zayn says. “Can see how that was a bit confusing. Me and Pez are engaged. We want to find new jobs, move here, then have the wedding. Get one big life change sorted before embarking on the more important one, and hopefully save some money in the process.”

“I see.” Harry’s face is still difficult to read. It’s a little odd, considering how open and cheery he was only a moment ago. “Well, I should get going. I could get in loads of trouble with Cowell if he sees me chatting you up. I’ll see you soon though, yeah? After they outsource all of the reference checks to me and you get hired." 

Harry winks, then turns around without a further word. 

Zayn watches him go, wondering what in the world just happened. And then he remembers himself, the hour-long subway ride back to Jason’s flat in Bushwick, and calls the lift.

  
  


**_New York. 2016._ **

Their friendship starts hesitantly. In fits and starts, like the engine of an old car. 

Zayn gets the job at the marketing firm, and he works on the same team as Harry. Their workspace is located on an open space floor, and Zayn ends up sitting next to Harry more often than not. They spend hours brainstorming designs, cursing over clients, and warily keeping up with politics via CNN news clips and Stephen Colbert segments. 

Harry’s fairly popular within the office. He’s a charmer, full of outlandish stories because he knows everyone there is to know in town. Every evening he finishes up late, closing his laptop and inviting Zayn out for a quick drink.

Zayn always declined. Initially it was because he was still moving and furnishing his flat, and he couldn’t justify spending $20 on a single cocktail when he still had to worry about purchasing a bed frame and paying for rent and groceries. Then, as weeks passed, Zayn abstained because the only time he ever saw Perrie anymore was in the few hours between an agonizingly long shift at work and bed, and Zayn knew those hours were precious, that couples lost their way when they didn’t carve out any special time for each other. And then Zayn’s declines were because he was embarrassed, his relationship crumbling like sand.

Ultimately Perrie moved out and the engagement was called off. His mum and dad were very disappointed, and they kept asking Zayn to come back home to explain what happened. 

Zayn keeps the apartment but tosses out half of his belongings because they remind him of a life he doesn’t have anymore, perhaps of a life he never truly had. 

And, because he’s young and he’s unexpectedly single, Zayn starts accepting Harry’s invitations. 

They bounce around town, trying out all the new and hip bars, before settling upon the rooftop spot around the corner from the office as their regular meeting place. Zayn loves feeling the wind in his hair on a summer’s night, loves watching Harry smile at him against the backdrop of this cutthroat city. Sometimes drinking with Harry is the only thing that feels right in the world.

Zayn knows he’s attracted to Harry, but it doesn’t feel prudent to comment on it. They’re co-workers, for one, and Zayn’s just gotten out of a long-term relationship. He’s not going to jeopardize his job — or Harry’s — for a fling. Plus Zayn sees how Harry is. They talk about it over drinks, how Harry flits from one relationship to the next, staying in it just long enough for a few good stories. 

Zayn listens but cannot relate. He’s a serial monogamist. He couldn’t be with someone who was only in it for three months of good sex, at max. And so he knows that he and Harry could never work, even if sometimes their lips meet if they’ve had too much to drink and Harry’s feeling a little frisky.

But then Harry meets someone. “ _ Mitch _ ,” he swoons one day while knocking back prosecco and grapefruit juice like it’s water. “God, he’s just  _ otherworldly _ , Zayn. I think you’d like him.”

Zayn does, when he finally meets Mitch a few weeks later. Like him, that is. Harry invites Mitch to join them at the rooftop bar, and even though these bar runs are sacred, safe spaces to bitch about work and love, Zayn doesn’t mind having Mitch there.

He’s less excited about the fact that Mitch is married. But that’s a whole other thing.

  
  


**_New York. 2018._ **

The gifts were given, the toasts made. And at the end of the party — “It’s not a proper goodbye, don’t worry. Come see me in the LA office!” — it’s just Harry and Zayn. As always.

“Zayn,” Harry calls, his smirk wide and lopsided from one too many mint juleps. 

Zayn turns. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. The whole of Manhattan is lit up behind Harry, staggering skyscrapers, millionaires’ penthouses, other rooftop bars. It’s all very Instagram-able, which is part of the reason that they come here so bloody often, but it’s especially arresting tonight — Harry’s hair tussling in the summer breeze, his shirt open at the nape and exposing Hamptons-tanned skin and the stamp of tattoos. Zayn wants to run his fingers down the column of Harry’s neck, lick the sweat collecting there. He wants to somehow tattoo the wayward path of his tongue, let Mitch and everyone else know what Zayn’s always felt in his bones. 

Because Harry’s his. Always has been, always will be. Friday nights at the rooftop bar are fucking sacred.

It’s all very sudden, a nasty jolt the way drunken realizations tend to be, but Zayn finally appreciates that everything he’s ever wanted is right in front of him — New York City and Harry Styles. 

And now Harry is leaving. 

_ I’m so fucked _ , Zayn thinks, a little terrified. But mostly he feels hopeless. California is a whole world away. Zayn can’t lose him.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he attempts his own crooked smile, and asks, “Yeah?”

“You’ll visit me, right?” Harry asks, his voice breaking in the middle. He clears his throat and tries again. “You’ll come and visit me in Los Angeles?”

Zayn bites his lip and nods. “Yeah, like — ‘course. I’ll probably have to for work once or twice a year. And it’s only a five hour long direct flight, yeah? I can get loads done on the plane. Sleep. Work on presentations. Watch some films.”

Harry nods, his grin growing bolder. He could power all of Manhattan with that smile. “Yeah. Only a five hour long flight.”

“You’ll find another rooftop bar for us to hang out at? A place to spend our Friday evenings when I’m in town?”

Zayn means it all in good fun, but Harry nods solemnly. “I’ll find us a bar. I’ll order you whiskey shots and Pimm’s.”

And then Harry leans in. His breath smells like mint and bourbon.

Zayn wishes he could say this is the first time they’ve done this, shared a kiss under the night sky. But he can’t.

_ This is wrong _ , Zayn thinks, just as he did the last time.  _ You’re both drunk _ . 

But he doesn’t stop. He isn’t sure he’s capable of denying Harry a thing. 

Zayn’s eyes cross and his heart thumps. Harry blurs out of focus as their lips meet.

  
  


**_California. Now._ **

This is it. This is Zayn’s life, standing outside of a dusty chapel several hours north of San Francisco, waiting for his best friend — and potentially the love of his life — to get married to some bloody American divorcé. 

Not that Zayn doesn’t still like Mitch. He does. Quite a lot, if he’s honest with himself. Mitch is chilled, talented, and insightful. The type of man his mum would sigh over and remark, “That one’s got a very kind soul.” Zayn’s spent many evenings sitting beside Mitch in the corner while Harry caught up with other friends. They’d always got on pretty well, talking about guitars and the newest episode of  _ The Walking Dead _ . Zayn knows that Mitch is a good counter balance to Harry’s occasionally frenzied energy. 

Knowing that — seeing how good Harry and Mitch are for each other — only makes Zayn feel worse about the whole thing. 

Fuck, Zayn is a terrible,  _ terrible _ person. He likes Mitch, thinks he’s a good person, but that didn’t stop him and Harry from playing a ridiculous game of cat and mouse for years, pulling at each other’s emotions, kissing under street lights and stringing each other along from different ends of the country.

And the worst of it is that Zayn’s still here, best man at Harry’s wedding. He’s here with Mitch’s ring box in his pocket, waffling as to whether or not he is going to move forward with a terrible,  _ terrible _ thing.

He should’ve taken Harry aside months ago. He should’ve said something when they were looking at venues, talking about flowers and catering. He should’ve said something at Louis’ stag do, when he and Harry were already crossing lines that never should’ve been breached. 

But he didn’t. So here he is.

Zayn spits out his Nicorette gum into the dirt path. Ants scuttle to cover the sticky substance. Zayn watches impassively before closing his eyes and tilting his face toward the sun.

_ La hawla wala quwata illa billah, _ he thinks. And then —  _ Here we go _ .

  
  


**_New York. 2019._ **

Zayn is still trying to work out whether dating Gigi is a terrible idea or not.

She’s so different from everyone else Zayn’s ever gone out with. Perrie loved tossing her hair up in a messy bun, pulling on trainers, and going to drink shitty vodka with her mates. And even Harry has a certain working class charm about him, nattering on forever about working at a bakery when he was in sixth form. 

But Gigi doesn’t  _ have _ to work. She chooses to, to pass the time and keep herself amused. Her father pays for her condo in Soho and she uses the wages from her job to buy Louboutins and go out for brunch. 

Harry introduced them initially, but Zayn and Gigi only started properly seeing each other in the months after Harry moved cross-country. Harry dated her mate, Kendall, and initially tried to set Zayn up with Gigi’s sister, Bella, in one of the most misguided but well-intentioned double dates ever. It’s only been four months, but Zayn’s felt like he’s known Gigi forever anyway, since he follows her on social media. He isn’t sure what to make out of the carefully curated images, designer bags, avocado on toast, and the odd post of Manhattan from her office, but Zayn still wants her, though. She’s the most beautiful woman that’s ever shown interest in him and she never pressures him to hang out with her mates. All she wants is a good meal — preferably somewhere with stiff drinks — and an even better shag. 

Considering how much she could be asking from him, Zayn thinks it’s a pretty solid deal.

“You still talk to Styles?” Gigi asks over brunch one morning. They’re in Soho, a few blocks from her condo, and she’s eating an acai bowl. It looks pretty but Zayn doesn’t understand how it could be anywhere close to filling. 

Zayn nods over his own order of pancakes and eggs. He’d kill for a proper fry-up. Once he’d tried to cook one for Gigi, but she said it was weird that Brits eat beans for breakfast. “Yeah, of course. I’m going to fly out to LA in two weeks, actually.”

Gigi looks down at her mimosa. She wriggles her lips like she’s wrestling with what to say next. Zayn waits, dread settling in his stomach. 

“It’s a little weird,” Gigi finally settles upon.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I just — I don’t like feeling like I’m playing second fiddle to a ghost.”

Zayn frowns. “A ghost?”

“To Harry,” Gigi clarifies. “I feel like I’m playing second fiddle to Harry.”

“Why? He’s my mate.” 

Gigi raises an eyebrow. “Is he? Just a ‘mate’, I mean?” 

Zayn can hear the sarcasm and finger-quotes in her voice. He flushes and then curses himself for reacting so obviously. But at the same time, it is what it is. 

“It — that doesn’t matter. He’s engaged.” Even now, after a year and a half of reconciling himself to this fact, saying it out loud tastes acidic. “There’s nothing more there than me helping him plan his wedding and stag do.”

Gigi stares at Zayn. Her eyes are piercing, a haunting mixture of blue and green. She’s so beautiful, and persevering, and sweet. Zayn could love her. He doesn’t yet, but he could get there, if they ever move beyond the fucking like rabbits stage. 

“I’m not sure I believe that, Zayn,” Gigi says. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

“Gigi — ”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gigi says, picking up her glass and taking a small sip. Zayn peers at her, disbelieving, but she does indeed seem nonplussed. “He’s beautiful and sweet. If he were my type, I’d probably be hung up on him years later, too.”

Zayn sighs and Gigi smirks.

“You wanting him doesn’t mean we can’t still have a lot of fun, though, Malik.”

  
  


**_Las Vegas. Two Months Ago._ **

Zayn boards an early morning flight from JFK to LAS. He’s buried in work, but ends up taking a kip on the plane, his eyes heavy halfway through one of the  _ Fast and the Furious _ movies.  

When he wakes up, it’s to the gentle bump as wheels touch tarmac. The sky is clear blue, and the desert heat starts to seep into the plane the moment they roll up to the gate. Zayn brushes sleep from his eyes and pulls his bag from the overhead compartment.

“Nice Gucci,” a girl in tottering heels remarks. She’s beautiful in a very Instagram model way, with long, dark extensions and tasteful lip fillers. Zayn hates that he’s even able to tell she’s had any work done, but those are the skills that dating — and breaking up with — a woman like Gigi Hadid gets you.

“Nice Rockstuds,” Zayn answers in return, gesturing at the woman’s shoes. She laughs, bright and summery, but some of the flirtation falls from her eyes.

Zayn waits for an Uber to the hotel. Summer in Las Vegas is always far more than Zayn’s British temperament can handle. The temperature on Zayn’s phone reads 112 degrees Fahrenheit, or 44 Celsius. Zayn’s only outside for about ten minutes, but that’s plenty of time for him to sweat through his thin T-shirt. 

Louis and the other lads are already at the Cosmopolitan by the time Zayn gets in. It’s not Zayn’s favorite hotel on the strip, but El and her mates picked it for their hen do, and Louis figured it was good enough for their boys’ trip. Zayn sees why El loves it, though — there are dripping chandeliers in the lobby, swirling staircases, and plenty of access to high-end shopping. It’s a girl’s dream.

Zayn checks into his room and takes another power nap. When he wakes up, it’s to five texts from Louis and two missed calls and one voicemail from Harry.

“I’m checked into the hotel,” Harry starts, his words low and familiarly meandering. “Kind of gutted we’re not sharing a room, but I s’pose that’s the point of being real adults now. No longer need to kip in the same bed just to save a few quid. Anyway, call me back when you get a chance? I’ll be down by the pool. I’ve got something I need to tell you before we meet up with everyone else for dinner.”

Zayn showers and tries not to read too much into Harry’s voicemail. But he also remembers the last time Harry said he needed to tell Zayn something. He remembers how it ended with Harry’s belongings packed up into a U-Haul, an engagement ring on his left hand. Zayn hates to think what Harry would have to tell him now. 

This is supposed to be a fun trip. A laugh with mates to celebrate Louis and Eleanor’s wedding ceremony this winter. They booked a venue in Manchester, at the sort of homey bed and breakfast that Zayn always imagined himself saying “I do” in.

Zayn meets up with Harry at the Vesper Bar an hour and a half before they’re supposed to head to Yardbird for dinner. Harry’s sitting at the bar with his back to Zayn, chatting up the ginger bartender. 

It’s been a few months since the last time they’ve seen each other in person. It’s obvious that Harry isn’t on his first drink — his shoulders are relaxed, and he’s gesticulating wildly while the bartender looks on in amusement, smitten against her better judgement. Zayn knows the feeling. Harry is utterly magnetic at the best of times, and he’s damn near irresistible when he’s lost that fine veneer of reticence.

He’s also cut his hair. Zayn already knew that from social media and their regular FaceTime calls, but it’s something else to see it in person. Zayn’s always thought of Harry as a baby rockstar, $900 Chelsea boots and shoulder-length curls, but he also supposes that everyone’s bound to grow up sometime. It’s not like Zayn’s the same man Harry met all those years ago. He’s gotten tattoos, grown out his hair and cut it again at least twice, proposed to two different women and been gently let down each time. If Harry could stick by his side through all that, Zayn should be able to deal with Harry’s shorter locks.

Zayn just hates that he’ll never get to pull Harry’s hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, holding on while he fucks into Harry from the back. 

Zayn forces his feet forward and presses a hand in between Harry’s shoulder blades. The bartender smirks and mouths something to Harry before flitting away to serve a couple that just arrived at the counter.

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to meet you for a drink at a rooftop bar,” Zayn remarks.

Harry turns around, and his smile is the dopy grin of a Harry who’s consumed at least three or four cocktails. “Louis got bottle service at Omnia tonight. It’s a rooftop club, sick views of the Strip. I figured that was plenty,” Harry answers. “Did you look at the itinerary? We’re seeing The Chainsmokers at XS tomorrow night.”

Zayn shrugs. “I skimmed it. We’re not going to Drai’s, which is what I wanted. Is Omnia the one Calvin Harris DJs at?” Harry nods. “Calvin Harris is a prick.”

Harry guffaws and Zayn settles into the empty chair next to him. Zayn’s eyes skim over Harry. The short hair seems to highlight how very green his eyes are. Harry grins, almost like he knows that Zayn is drinking him in, and he runs a hand through the longer strands at the top of his head. 

That’s when Zayn notices that Harry isn’t wearing his engagement ring.

  
  


**_California. Now._ **

The chapel smells like flowers. Roses and peonies. 

Zayn stands before the great oak doors. Sun rushes in through the high windows and the altar is lush with soft, summer flowers. The florist and her assistant are finishing up, placing succulents along the table neighboring the back row. Zayn remembers how proud Harry was when he booked the florist on his own, announcing it over FaceTime.  

“Didn’t have to ask Mitch to pony up,” Harry said, grinning.

Zayn felt himself smirking too. Harry’s smiles were always so damn infectious. “As if you can’t afford the down payment on your own, you rich bastard.”

Harry guffawed, lifting two fingers.

They’re both managers running their own teams, now. Hell, Harry’s basically responsible for the whole Los Angeles office. But they still always manage to find time for each other. 

Just another silly reason why Zayn can’t lose him.

Zayn brushes his hand against the church doors. He takes a moment to commit the sensation to memory before turning away.

When Zayn finds Harry, he’s getting ready in the suite in the back of the chapel. 

Shockingly, he’s alone. No mum. No sister. No other groomsmen. Really and properly alone.

Zayn last saw Harry the night before, during the rehearsal dinner. His hair was windswept and his cheeks pink from drink, but he was still a dream, even as he draped himself across Mitch’s back and licked the shell of his ear. 

It feels like a punch to the stomach to see him now. Zayn marvels that maybe it’ll  _ never _ stop feeling that way. Not as long as Harry’s back is broad and strong, tapering to thin hips and a shapely arse. Not as long as his hair swirls at the nape of his neck, and he wears several pairs of chunky rings on long, thick fingers. But even if Harry grows thick with age, even if he’s wrinkled and misshapen and loses all of his hair, Zayn thinks the sight of him would be enough to make him come up short. 

Harry stands in front of a mirror, fidgeting with his jacket. He’s wearing a black suit, expensive and well-tailored. There’s a pink peony in his lapel. And Zayn chokes, because Harry’s wearing the same gold Saint Laurent boots he had on when they first met.

Zayn’s heart thumps a war drum in his chest. For the millionth time, he second-guesses himself and what he’s here to do.

Harry’s been his rock for so many years. And what Zayn has to say, what he’s here to  _ ask _ — there are only two ways it can go. Either Harry will admit to the smoldering love that’s always existed between them, will own up to the lust and the inappropriate intimacy, or Harry will deny it, and he’ll hate Zayn. 

Zayn can’t stand the possibility that Harry might rebuke him. He hates to think that he might have to leave this chapel in a hurry and take an early flight back home. Harry will have to hand the best man duties over to someone else and dodge the questions of whatever happened to that sweet bloke, quiet, introverted Zayn.

Zayn hates the idea of he and Harry letting years hang between them, full of gaping silence and thrashing hurt. 

Zayn should’ve never let it get so bad. He shouldn’t have held this inside for so many years. He should’ve made his move the moment he caught Harry looking. 

For a moment, Zayn feels nothing but the sharp twinge of regret. 

But then Harry catches sight of Zayn in the mirror. He looks up, green eyes and a million pound smile, and it feels like a movie, like Hans Zimmer or Ramin Djawadi composed the scene. 

And Zayn remembers everything that he loves about Harry and also the reason why he let Harry chase after another man — because Mitch made Harry happy, and Zayn loves a happy Harry more than anything else. 

“Harry,” Zayn says, but it sounds more like a groan. And then, without preamble, without forethought, “Please don’t marry him.”

The smile slides from Harry’s face. He draws himself up, and Zayn knows he is in for a fight.

  
  


**_Las Vegas. Two Months Ago._ **

They tumble into Harry’s hotel room, lips locked. They part and Harry’s eyes are hungry and  oceanic. He pushes Zayn toward the bed, and Zayn thwacks his leg into Harry’s open suitcase along the way.

The jolt of pain doesn’t detract from the mood or pull Zayn’s attention from the lust in Harry’s eyes. The energy in the room is charged and Zayn can’t help but feel like the entirety of his life — love and loss and travel and work — has hurtled toward this one moment. 

Zayn takes a seat along the edge of the mattress and watches, breath ragged, as Harry pulls his shirt over his head. Zayn’s seen Harry partially undressed before, mostly in passing, but sneaking glances is nothing like watching Harry put on a show. He’s transfixed by the flex of Harry’s muscles, the blocks of tattoos, and the trail of hair from navel to the top of his trousers. He’s even more captivated when Harry skims his hands over his stomach and pops open his jeans.

Harry’s not wearing pants. Zayn chokes back a whimper. His throat feels dry.

Zayn idly wonders if Harry planned for this to happen. If he got dressed and purposefully neglected pants, if it was his goal to end the night with Zayn.

Zayn decides that he doesn’t care.

They had a drink each at the Vesper Bar earlier in the evening. They caught up on the usual things, their sisters, their mums, office gossip. Harry asked Zayn to recap his breakup with Gigi because “You weren’t really clear about it over text.” Zayn did his best, but he leaves many details out, halting over wounds that still feel raw. Zayn was just about to turn the conversation to Harry’s wedding when he was preempted.

“Mitch and I are on a break,” Harry said, voice devoid of any real emotion. He wasn’t looking at Zayn, either. A muscle in his jaw flexed. Zayn closed his eyes, pushing past the familiar swell of attraction, and a sudden dizzying surge of hope.

“No — we really are!” Harry insisted, obviously misreading Zayn’s silence. “You know how he is. Always testing me. He wants to make sure I’m dead serious.”

Zayn shook his head. He didn’t understand.

But apparently that didn’t matter. Because drinks turned into dinner with the lads, which turned into bottle service at Omnia. It felt familiar, being at another rooftop bar with Harry, but Zayn isn’t into EDM, and he felt turned off by all the girls with long blonde extensions dancing near their table, angling their bodies with the intention of getting free booze.

Zayn didn’t realize how drunk he was until Harry collapsed on the couch next to him and started nattering nonsense into his ear. Zayn laughed along like he usually did, the world feeling warm and spinny. 

But then Harry’s hand was on his knee, and then higher up, along his thigh. And then Harry wasn’t properly talking anymore, instead skimming his lips along the column of Zayn’s neck. Zayn arched into it, let it happen.

It felt rude to be out in public. All of their friends could see them, could judge Harry for using Zayn, and judge Zayn for letting himself be used.

But Louis was shit-faced and fist-pumping with some girl who could’ve passed for one of his sisters. Niall was doing shots of Grey Goose with the rest of the lads. And Liam was either passed out on the couch across from them or riding out the last of the molly, Zayn couldn’t tell which.

Harry squeezed Zayn’s hip and asked him back to the hotel. His lips were red, his pupils wide like he was rolling, and Zayn — well. 

That’s where Zayn is now. He helps steady Harry as he pulls off his boots and trousers. And then Harry is in his lap, nude and straddling him.

“I could get off just like this,” Harry says, licking the shell of Zayn’s ear before trailing his lips down Zayn’s neck, to the hem of his shirt. “Been thinking about it all night.”

Zayn doesn’t doubt him. But if they’re going to do this, if they’re going to cross the last line in their friendship and say “fuck it” to Harry’s relationship in the process, they’re not going to rut against each other like kids. 

Zayn flips them and Harry bounces on the mattress. He giggles, nose scrunching and dimples showing, and Zayn leans forward to taste his laughter.

Harry helps Zayn pull off the rest of his clothes — dress shirt, jeans with stiff buttons, Nike LeBrons, socks, his pants. Harry runs his fingers over Zayn’s skin reverentially, brushes his fingers over the heart etched on Zayn’s hip before dipping his fingers lower and taking Zayn’s cock in hand. Zayn grunts and closes his eyes.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks. 

Zayn nods, even though it does feel a little overwhelming, being intertwined in the darkness like this. He shouldn’t sleep with Harry when he and Mitch are “on a break”. He shouldn’t let Harry treat him like a rebound, or whatever this is — a bit of fun before getting tied down. He should care more about himself and his feelings. He shouldn’t get everything he’s ever wanted. 

“Then open your eyes, Zayn.”

Zayn does. 

He looks at Harry, and Harry looks at Zayn, and Zayn almost says it then. Almost tells Harry exactly how he feels, and how misguided it will be for Harry to run back to Mitch like he inevitably will.

But the moment is a thin, tenuous thing, and it breaks. Harry presses a hand to Zayn’s hip and directs him back against the mattress. 

Zayn loses himself in the wet heat of Harry’s mouth, the surety of his fingers, and the comfort of his cock.

 

When Zayn wakes the next morning, the night before filters back as bits and pieces, golden-bathed memories like recollections of a favorite movie. He remembers how Harry’s lips looked as he sucked him, and how Harry hitched Zayn’s legs over his shoulders to fuck him deeper. He remembers Harry goading him into making it last, telling him he was perfect, repeating over and over how much he  _ wanted _ this. Zayn remembers feeling full and lavished, and croaking out Harry’s name when he came.

Zayn reaches out across the mattress, expecting to run his fingers through Harry’s silky strands and grunt out a raspy “Good morning.” But instead his hand meets nothing but comforter.

Zayn opens his eyes. Light filters in through the balcony, warming the other side of the bed, but he’s alone. The suitcase he’d tripped over last night is zipped and closed. His clothes from the night before are neatly folded on the settee across from the bed. 

There’s a scrap of paper with the Cosmo’s logo waiting for him on the bedside table, next to Zayn’s phone and an iPhone charger.

Zayn reads it and feels his heart sink.

 

_ Mitch called. Didn’t want to wake you. _

_ I know I should say sorry.  _ _ But I’d rather we just  _

_ Don’t want to make things awkward for Louis and the others, and I still want you as my best man later this summer, if you’ll still have me. _

_ H. xx _

  
  


**_California. Now._ **

Zayn can’t remember the last time he and Harry properly fought. They’re more of the denial type, pressing hesitant kisses into each other’s skin and denying it under the unforgiving light of day. 

But they’re definitely fighting now.

Harry’s face has taken on that careful, blank look he adopts whenever he’s caught off guard and is mentally running through his list of options. But Zayn knows him, can see the flare of his nostrils and the wariness in his eyes. He’s angry — furious, even.

“You’re talking shit,” Harry spits. “What do you mean — ‘Don’t marry him’?”

“Exactly that,” Zayn says, taking a step further into the room. Harry leans away, but doesn’t take a step back. “I — I think you should call it off.”

“And what makes you get off on saying something like that on my bloody wedding day?”

Zayn pauses.

“Well?” Harry crosses his arm over his chest and taps a foot impatiently.

“You know how I feel about you, Haz.”

“No,” Harry answers. “I don’t think I do.”

Zayn sniffs. He turns away, his eyes scanning the contents of the room. A garment bag. A Saint Laurent shoe box. A Diptyque candle and Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille Eau de Parfum.

And Harry’s beat-up journal, open to a page three-quarters into the spine. Zayn knows that Harry and Mitch decided to write their own vows. He wonders if Harry was working on them before he caught sight of Zayn, murmuring the words underneath his breath.

“I — I love you, Harry,” Zayn says, eyes still glued to Harry’s journal. “And I don’t want to tell you what to do. That’s not my intention, but — ”

“Good,” Harry retorts. Zayn turns and Harry’s face is flushed. “Because I’m not going to listen to you. I’m going to marry him.”

Zayn tries not to show how his heart is breaking. “Please, Harry. Just hear me out — ”

“No,” Harry interjects. It’s not a shout but it’s broken and ragged and there’s something terrible about it. “I can’t. Not today, Zayn. Not on my bloody wedding day. How dare you say you love me?”

“Harry — ”

“He left his wife for me,” Harry continues. “You remember. You remember how much he gave up to be with me. And I — I care for him, I do. And I. I just.”

Harry trails off. The blank expression has slid off his face, and now he looks nothing but uncertain. 

Zayn ducks his gaze, skimming the toe of his boot across the floor. He tries not to focus on how Harry didn’t say he loves Mitch, too. Instead, he thinks about how Mitch isn’t the only person in the world who has torched a relationship for Harry Styles.

Harry must realize it at the same time, his face going rosy with what Zayn can only assume is embarrassment and perhaps pity.

“I — not to compare losses, or anything,” Harry says, his words falling out of his mouth clunkily. “Like, it’s not a competition. Who loves me more by killing their marriages and engagements, comparing Mitch and his ex to whatever happened between you and Gigi. I knew you weren’t telling me everything — ”

Zayn sighs. “I got what you meant the first time, Haz. And you weren’t the sole reason Gigi and I failed.”

“Just like I’m not the sole reason why Mitch and his ex split. There were other factors — ”

“But we’re not talking about either of those things,” Zayn interrupts. “I’ve listened to enough of you trying to justify your role in the demise of their marriage. Years of it. That’s not what I’m here to talk to you about. I’m here to talk to you about us. You and me.”

“Zayn — ”

“Just hear me out — ”

“ — I already paid for the florist — ”

“ — There’s still plenty of time to call it off — ”

“ — And the caterer, and the chapel. Just look at it! It’s so quaint — ”

“ — And nobody could fault you, if you decided that it wasn’t going to work — ”

“Of course they’d fault me for calling off a wedding at the eleventh hour. Are you mental?” Harry doesn’t stomp his foot, but it’s close enough of a gesture that Zayn immediately snaps his mouth closed. “It’s not —  _ Jesus _ , Zayn, you know it’s nothing like the films, right? You can’t just swoop in at the last minute and expect me to run away with you.”

“I’m not saying it’s like the films — ”

“You are. You’re acting like I haven’t thought things through. And yeah, I get that sometimes I don’t, really, but I’ve had plenty of time and opportunity to call things off between Mitch and I if that’s what I wanted to do. I could’ve dumped Mitch a million times while we were dating. It was long-distance and awkward, and he was still in love with his wife, and he’s so much older and set in his ways. I had so many reasons to let it fall apart, but I didn’t. I could’ve said ‘No’ when he proposed. I could’ve told him we needed to wait longer, that I needed to stay in New York or that he needed to move in with me there. Jesus, Zayn, I could’ve told him I didn’t think I was ready at any time between the engagement party and now.”

“So why did you sleep with me during Louis’ stag do then?” Zayn demands. “Why did you take advantage the moment you and Mitch were on pause?”

Harry goes a very fetching shade of pink, but he manages to look Zayn in the eye when he says, “Because I’ve wanted to shag you for years. You have to know that.”

“But it didn’t mean anything?” Zayn asks, quirking an eyebrow. “It was just mates having a laugh? Because you sure did scamper off quickly the next morning.”

Harry is still blushing. “ _ Zayn _ — ”

“Harry, stop pretending! It wasn’t just lust that motivated that, erm — ”

“Tryst?”

“Shit, Harry. No, it wasn’t a bloody tryst.”

“I thought it was,” Harry protests. “And it was lovely. I really enjoyed it — and yes, I do wish we could do it again. It was just that Mitch called and he sounded forlorn about work and I couldn’t very well give him advice when you were in my bed. That’s just not on.”

Zayn swears. Nothing about this conversation is going the way he expected.

“So that’s all it was?” Zayn presses. “Years and years of you sneaking kisses and relying on me for emotional support? Just lovely little trysts?”

Harry opens his mouth but doesn’t respond.

Perhaps Zayn should’ve expected this outcome. Harry’s very open — when you ask the right questions. But it’s obvious that Zayn doesn’t know what the right things are to say.

He’s so tired. And he’s made such a colossal mistake.

Zayn turns back toward the door but Harry’s there in a flash, hand on Zayn’s hip, eyes wide and confused. “You’re leaving?”

Zayn pauses. “Um. Yes? Wouldn’t it be a little weird if I stayed?”

Harry opens his mouth, but Zayn notes the shifting emotions on his face as he mulls it over.

Zayn knows it then. Harry  _ does _ love him, in his own way. But he’s already made up his mind and paid off the florist. Mitch is his choice. At least for now.

Zayn pulls out Mitch’s ring box from his pocket and places it in Harry’s hand.

“You’ll find a way to explain me away,” Zayn says. “And one day you’ll realize — you’ll realize, and I want you to promise me that you’ll ring me. Okay? I’m always just one ring away.”

Harry nods, his face stony. Zayn can’t tell what in the hell he’s thinking. 

Looking back, Zayn won’t be able to recall who reached for whom. But their lips meet on a broken sigh and Zayn tastes a hint of whiskey on Harry’s tongue.

Harry must have needed a little liquid courage to get through this day. 

Harry’s tongue curls against Zayn’s before they both pull away. Zayn wants to leave with the taste of Harry as his last memory of this moment, but he can’t. 

So he looks up. Lives with his eyes open, like Harry once asked him to in a Las Vegas hotel room. And for a brief moment, he sees everything — the indecision in Harry’s eyes, the flush in his cheeks. 

Harry’s not being difficult because he doesn’t care about Zayn. He’s being difficult because he  _ does _ , and because he cares about Mitch, too.

That’s the part that they always forget in the movies. That people are complex and choices aren’t always so black and white.

Zayn slides his hands from where they’d come to rest against Harry’s shoulders and opens the door. He turns before it slams shut behind him. Harry’s moved back toward the mirror, but he’s folded over, his hand buried in his hair.  

Zayn stands outside the chapel for a few minutes before calling an Uber. He blinks against the sunshine as he waits, cursing himself for not bringing a pair of sunglasses. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pack of Nicorette gum for the second time that afternoon. He presses his fingers against the plastic but doesn’t break the seal.  

The Toyota pulls up, tires crunching against gravel. Zayn lets himself into the backseat and murmurs his greeting to the driver. They’re barely pulling onto the highway before he logs into the Virgin app, booking an earlier flight back home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: That wedding moment, where the groom is in the back room looking at the mirror, fixing his bow-tie and contemplating all of his choices in life that led him to stand there, when the other walks in, maybe he's the best-man or (uninvited) guest, to declare his everlasting love five minutes before the wedding starts. Could just be that specific moment in a very heartbreaking way, or there could be an entire build up to it. Whichever.


End file.
